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Dead Frontier/Issue 116
This is Issue #116 of Dead Frontier, titled NYC. ''This is the second issue in '''Volume 20.' Issue 116 - NYC Farrah stares up at the man looming over her, unable to hide the look of disgust on her face. But he doesn't seem to care that she's completely disinterested. Sweat beads on his brow and he grunts loudly and obnoxiously with each movement of his hips. His gut and receding hairline only put her off even more. Probably only a few more minutes, she estimates. And that's all it takes. Three minutes later, and they're sitting side by side on the bed. She clasps her bra back on and he pulls his pants over his protruding belly, struggling to button them. "Thanks, sweetie," he says. He stands, grabs his shirt, and is out the door without another word. She leans over to her nightstand and pulls open the top drawer. She reaches down and grabs a wad of cash, the last of her savings. Mixed in with the bills are pieces of jewelry--some intact and others just fragments of gold or silver. She counts her money slowly and carefully, sighing with disappointment when she's done. All she needs is a little more. Just a little more. This is how her days go. She finds a guy who’s willing to pay a bit more than the rest; she puts on her most charming facade, maybe to get him to up his pay a some more, and gives him the slightest touch on the arm. Sometimes a quick whisper in his ear can get him to cough up a nice watch, or necklace. Something that’ll do well on the market. That’s all it takes, and they’re her naive little toy for the night. It’s not something she’s proud of. With every glance in the mirror, she’s repulsed, but she buries her self-loathing as far down as she can. Can’t let it interfere with her pay. And that pay is absolutely essential. Guns are expensive, and if she’s planning to get her revenge anytime soon, she needs to rack up as much cash as she can, as fast as she can. Her mind drifts to how she let her life deteriorate so quickly. It all started with a woman named Amelia: her sister in some ways, but technically, her best friend from high school. Both hoping to hit it big in the entertainment world, they moved to New York after high school, and the small bit parts and commercial roles seemed to fall right into Farrah’s hands, while Amelia struggled to even get her first speaking part. For about a year, their connections faltered, and as much as they wanted to keep in touch, different endeavors kept them apart again. They both stayed in New York, however, and they lost touch with most of their family members; as soon as the apocalypse hit, she and Amelia reconnected again, having never been so happy to see each other. They were some of the first few to gain access into the newly constructed New York City Zone, but the promises of prosperity and safety were soon drowned out by the rampant crime in just a few months. She and Amelia stuck together, as much as they could, their bond growing stronger as they helped each other out, snuck each other any rations or coins they could find. They were as poor as everyone else there, but they provided for themselves as best as they could. Amelia made the mistake of being too desperate. Hungry for cash, she stole from one of the local dealers; some big-headed Hispanic guy named Andres who tried too hard to be intimidating. It wasn’t hard for him to track her down. When Andres came banging on their door, Amelia forced Farrah to hide, said she could deal with them. Amelia’s confidence easily shifted onto Farrah, and she complied, concealing herself in a small closet. And there, she was forced to listen as not only was Amelia assaulted beyond recognition by Andres and one of his friends, but completely defiled and stripped of any dignity she had left before they killed her. So here she is now, destroying her own self-respect with every guy she drags to bed, just so she can avenge a friend. She sighs before rising from her bed and walking down a short, narrow hall. This small pathway leads to the rest of the rooms of the tiny apartment the safe zone provided her with: a bedroom, a hall closet, and a bathroom. She pushes open the creaky door to the bathroom and searches the wall for the lightswitch. The fluorescent lights above flash to life, but soon they’re reduced to an annoying flickering. She pulls the shower curtain aside and turns the knob. Instead of a fresh flow of water like she usually expects, there’s only a drip, and then nothing. Must’ve finally cut off her water. ---- It only takes a week for Farrah to accumulate the rest. With a satchel over her shoulder and a tattered navy jacket--the only thing protecting her from the harsh early-winter winds--she exits her apartment building and starts down the street. Night must have fallen a few hours ago. It’s pitch black, the only illumination coming from the moon and few dingy streetlights placed along the sidewalks. She makes a few twists and turns along the way, finally ending up in an ominous alleyway. A figure stands at the far end of the alley, the tip of a cigarette the only light she can see. The figure takes a long drag, removes the cigarette, then exhales a good bit of smoke. The figure freezes at the sight of Farrah, and she steps forward hesitantly. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, and in the silence, the sound of it is only amplified. “Let me see it all,” the man says. He drops his cigarette to the ground and crunches it under his boot. Slowly, she removes the satchel and hands it to him. He pulls out a tiny flashlight and inspects its contents. “This is good.” “Is it enough?” she asks. He pauses. “I can work with this.” He zips up the bag and tosses it on the ground, next to a dumpster. A larger bag also sits on the cement, and he crouches down next to it, doing a similar inspection with his flashlight. It seems like forever, but he pulls out some kind of revolver. He stands, and holds it out to her with two hands. “Colt King Cobra,” he says. “Six round cylinder. Four inch barrel.” She takes it from him and curses herself for allowing her hands to tremble. Then, he reaches into his jacket and hands her a small, but heavy, box of ammunition. She slides it into her pocket, and from the silence, she can tell they’re done here. “Nice doing business with you,” he says. She looks him in the face for the first time. A hood conceals most of his face, but she can make out an odd discrepancy in his eyes. One blue, the other dark brown. ---- She told herself she’d wait a few days to do this, but now that the weapon is in her grasp, she can’t. Tears roll down her cheeks as she approaches Andres’ front door, music blasting from the inside on the otherwise quiet street. She stomps up the steps, revolver in hand and loaded with six bullets. She bangs her fist on the door, impatient and shaking from the cold and her boiling fury. Someone looks out the front window, at the porch. Farrah meets his eyes and sees that it’s Andres’ good friend Matthew, who she knows too well as the man Andres brought along to deal with Amelia. A few seconds later, he’s opening the door, looking down at Farrah from his 6’6” frame. “The hell do you want?” he asks. His accent is heavy, and a toothpick hangs out of his mouth. Farrah raises the revolver, and his chest explodes in a spray of red. There’s a vulgar shout from inside the house, and she sees Andres emerge from one of the back rooms, pulling his pants above his waist. “Holy shit--” he says. Before he can run, she pulls the trigger, and the bullet rips through his neck. There’s a more feminine screaming coming from inside and Farrah enters the house. She walks over to his writhing body and takes a glance into the room. A woman covers her chest with a blanket. “Shut up!” Farrah shouts at her, and her mouths snaps shut, but her body still trembles uncontrollably. Farrah shifts her focus back to Andres, adjusts her aim to his chest, and fires the last four shots. ---- A few minutes after the deal with that pretty girl, Hunter grabs his bag of firearms and his new haul of cash and jewelry and heads out of the alley. He makes sure to keep himself hidden; cops like to patrol out here at night, and if he can get back to his apartment in at least ten minutes, he should be fine. This isn’t a job he’s proud of. He knows when his guns leave his possession they’re usually in the hands of people up to no good. How else is he supposed to make a living? There are no actual jobs here. If he didn’t do this, he’d be dirt poor, and he’s already on the brink of starving. He trots up his apartment steps and opens the door, met with the harsh but familiar stench it emits. Must be rats, or a dead body in one of the rooms. He pushes awkwardly past a drunkard on the steps and up another set of stairs, to apartment 3D. He enters quietly, closing the door behind him silently. The living room is dark, as is the rest of the house. He moves through the cramped and messy area without a sound, then proceeds down the hall to his right. The door to the bedroom is open just a crack, and he can hear a mix of static and voices coming from the radio. “All water syst--out tonight. Should b--tomorrow,” says an uninterested newscaster. Hunter sees a figure lying in the bed, the blankets falling up and down with each of her breaths. She groans at the ruckus he makes opening the closet to hide his guns and cash, but soon he slips in next to her. “Hey, Karen,” he says. “Three in the morning…” she mutters, but he slides in close and wraps a protective arm around her stomach. “Sorry. I had a really good haul today, though,” he says, unable to hide the happiness in his voice. “How much?” “A--a lot. It’s gonna help out.” And they need as much as they can get, with a baby on the way. ---- “I--I can’t fucking take this! It’s not enough!” Hunter says, whispering harshly at the three men in front of him. They want heavy artillery, fucking submachine guns, rifles, the whole nine, but in Hunter’s words, what they’re offering him for it is “absolutely dreadful.” He takes the pathetic bag full of broken watches and a few hundred bucks and shoves it back to the nearest man. “This is a fucking insult,” Hunter says to him. “Come back another time.” “This isn’t a fucking negotiation,” the man says, stepping forward. He shoves the bag back into Hunter’s arms. They seriously want him to take this meager supply for most of his weapons. He’s let something like this happen before, and he considers it one of the biggest mistakes of his life. He and Karen were without food for nearly a week, and she contemplated leaving him then and there. He’s not risking that again, especially now that she’s almost five months pregnant. “No,” Hunter says, and he throws the bag to the floor. Big mistake. The first man lunges at him and grabs him by the throat. “Take it--hurry up!” he says, and one of the other men reach for Hunter’s bag of guns and knives. He considers that bag his life, and without it, he might as well move out of his apartment now and settle himself on the streets. The man with his hold on Hunter receives a punch to the stomach and Hunter slips away, lunging toward the man with his bag. However, the third man is much faster and delivers a hard punch to Hunter’s jaw. Hunter hits the pavement; he feels his jaw shift in a way it shouldn’t and blood fills his mouth rapidly. Defeated, he doesn’t attempt to rise, and he listens with tears in his eyes as the men’s footsteps retreat, taking his life with them. ---- “It wasn’t my fault!” Hunter shouts at Karen. “They were three fucking reincarnations of the Hulk--how do you expect me to go up against that?” “Was it really better to come back with nothing?” she says. “If you just gave it to them, we’d have something, at least.” “We do have something. I’ve been saving up and--and we’ll be fine.” “For how long?” “A little while. Long enough,” he says, a little doubtful. She catches the uncertainty in his voice, then grabs her jacket from the back of a nearby recliner. “Where are you going?” “To Nicole’s. I’m not dealing with you today.” “Why are you being so over-dramatic about this? You think I wanted this to happen? There was nothing I could do, and we’ll get past this, alright?” He pauses. “Like always.” “That's what you said when we almost starved to death." "You can't blame me for that! At least I'm trying. You don't bring any fucking money in around here." "You want me to whore myself out, then?" she asks. "'Cause that's the only way." "No. Listen to me--" She ignores him and walks past him, to the front door. "Karen," he says. He grabs her roughly by the arm; she turns, and gives him a hard slap to the face. He holds his cheek and stares her in the face. She freezes for a second, regret burning in her eyes, but she ultimately makes the decision to walk out the door. ---- Karen wraps her jacket tight around her body, shivering in the crisp, cold air. The wind whips her hair around her face, and she impatiently moves the blonde strands out of her eyes. Maybe she overreacted. But she can't deal with him fucking up like this--again. She finds that she can't predict if he'll come home empty handed or with a bag full of gold. He's unreliable, he doesn't think through his decisions, and she wanted to leave before she said something terrible. Nicole's apartment is only a few blocks away. She lives with her boyfriend, a nice guy, although a little obnoxious, and her place is much nicer than her and Hunter's. She wonders if their water is still out, too. She hopes not, just so she can relish in the warmth of a nice, hot shower. She turns her head slightly when she hears the sound of a car engine. She estimates it's about a block away, and she picks up her pace, her fingers already numbing from the cold. The roar of the engine only gets louder and she continues on, but she can see Nicole's front porch in the distance. Karen begins her jog across the street, but when she turns her head, she's staring wide-eyed at the headlights of a speeding car. ---- Cedric opens his door and enters the small, nondescript apartment. The walls are white. He has no paintings adorning the walls and minimal furniture. He only visits this place once in a while, when he can't find a buddy's couch to crash on. He doesn't see the point in wasting his money on decorations when he could put it to much better use. His cars aren't going to upgrade themselves. He has all of his vehicles stored in a garage a few blocks east, locked away tightly. He takes too much pride in his collection to risk someone ruining it, so he doesn't open that garage unless he absolutely needs to. Cedric's pulling his jacket off when he hears a knock at his door. He slips the jacket off completely and throws it onto the couch before walking to the door. He looks through the peephole; a bald, dark skinned man stands on the opposite side of the door, hands deep in his pockets. "Drake. Open up," the man says after a few seconds. Cedric complies, undoes the excess locks on the door, and opens it. The man enters, and now that he’s in full view, Cedric recognizes him as Wayne. No last name needed. Wayne was never one for pleasantries, so he cuts right to the chase. "Got a job for you. A big one," Wayne says, removing his hands from his pockets and cracking his knuckles. "Nice to see you, too, man. I'm doin' good. How's Melanie?" Cedric says, a smug grin on his face. Wayne shakes his head and forces his way inside without invitation. "Cut the bullshit. You want it or not?" "Depends," Cedric says, closing the door. "How much?" "About twenty thousand. Plus a two week supply from the pantry," Wayne says. "Twenty thousand? What the hell am I gonna do for that much?" "Some Congress dude's holding a convention in the square tomorrow. He wants to be next VP, but Reese ain't having it. Get the infected into the square, cause a scene, maybe get him killed, I don't know. He just wants to ruin his little campaign." Reese, his boss, ways was a firm believer in 'go big or go home.' "How many people gonna be there?" Cedric asks. “About five hundred. Taking it or what?” The things he could do with twenty thousand dollars. He completely disregards the five hundred innocents he’d be putting in danger as he falls into a fantasy, imaging what he’d spend it on. Cedric holds his hand out, and Wayne shakes it with a grin that’s just barely detectable. Cedric tries his best to listen to the rest of the details of what’s to happen tomorrow, but still, he’s lost in his imagination. ---- Cedric drives along in silence the next day, the sun blazing down through his windshield. He makes a smooth right turn into an alley, maneuvering the streets with ease. This is where he feels most at home, in one of his cars. Some think it’s ridiculous, but if he could ride all day, every day--that’s what he’d do. He’s surprisingly calm driving toward the southern end of the zone, far away from the disgusting area mostly everyone else lives. Here, the politicians live in buildings only in slightly better conditions than the northern end. It’s also the location of two infamous warehouses. This is where thousands of infected are harbored, stored for experimentation later. Like they’re actually going to find a cure. Cedric almost laughs. A silver-plated badge hangs around his neck, and he wears clothes that feel unusual on him. He dons nothing but grey: a button up shirt, a tie, and dress pants. Rarely would he dress like this, but without this ‘uniform’ and a badge, there’s no way he’d be given access to the warehouses. There are so many employees working there, anyway, he’s sure he can fit right in. He parks his car a few blocks away and goes the rest of the journey on foot. He memorizes the code Wayne gave him: 9356. It’s the only way he’ll be able to unlock the warehouse doors. Apparently, Reese was able to beat the code out of one of the Zone’s scientists, who probably won’t be seen again. As Cedric gets closer, he sees people milling around, wearing nearly the same thing he is. They also have badges hanging from their necks, and a large group approaches a high metal gate. Cedric picks up his pace and files in behind them. Some guard at the gate does quick check of their badges, and they’re all allowed access. Including Cedric. Behind the gates, the warehouses loom over the people inside. He’s not entirely sure what goes on here. He assumes most of these people are scientists, bustling in and out of buildings impatiently, holding vials and pushing stretchers. It’s like a whole other city here, but Cedric ignores his awe to focus on the task at hand. Cedric moves around to the back of the first warehouse, where just as many people are moving about. They all seem frantic, and usually Cedric would take this many witnesses as a bad sign. But it doesn’t look like they’re paying much attention to him. He finds himself unusually curious as to what could have them so on edge, when he eyes a guard, rifle slung across his shoulder, standing tall in front of the warehouses large, back double doors. Cedric approaches him and taps him on the arm. “Dr. Baxter needs you in the Turner building, room 23,” Cedric says, and the guard looks at him incredulously. “For what?” “I wasn’t told.” “I can’t leave my post. I’m sure someone else can deal with it.” Cedric tightens his jaw. He wished this guy was just a little more gullible. “I--” Cedric begins, but the guard cuts him off. “I’ve never seen you around here. You work in Turner?” the guard asks. “Yeah, only for a few months.” “Let me see your ID.” “What?” “Your Turner ID,” the guard repeats impatiently. Cedric wasn’t aware he needed an ID. Bonehead move on Wayne’s part, and Cedric racks his brain for a response. “Oh. Sure,” Cedric says. He pats his pockets, a look of feigned confusion on his face. “Uh...where the hell…?” The guard furrows his brows together and tightens the grip on his rifle. “Musta dropped it…” Cedric mutters. The guard smiles. “Only guards are issued IDs,” he says slowly, and he grabs Cedric by the arm. Simultaneously, he reaches for the walkie talkie on his shoulder and drones off a description of Cedric. “We’ve got an intruder near warehouse 2. African-American male, about 5’7”...” Cedric pulls his arm away, and the guard shouts after him. Cedric sprints through the thick crowd of people, doing his best to keep his head low. He runs into someone and nearly knocks him over. The gates are still open as someone is allowed entry, and Cedric squeezes through before they can close. He can still hear yelling behind him, but he keeps his legs moving, twisting through alleyways and over gates. His car comes into view, and he flings the door open and hops into the driver’s seat. Behind him, he sees four men with rifles turn around the corner. Before they can fire, Cedric turns the key into the ignition and slams onto the gas, pulling off loudly. ---- That night, Cedric parks his car in an empty alleyway and stays there, rather than heading back to his apartment. He’s not sure who got a good look at his face, and he doesn’t want to risk the police tracking down his address. He decides to go for a drive to release some of his anger. The car’s engine roars to life and he presses lightly on the gas. He can’t believe he fell for that fucking trick. Twenty thousand precious dollars, now out of his grasp. Wayne’s probably seething, wondering where he is. That’s when Cedric realizes, he can’t stay here. He does a myriad of different jobs, most of them illegal, but he’s never been caught. Now, he doesn’t want to push his luck, or have Wayne tracking him down for his obvious failure. He sighs, and as he drives, he punches the steering wheel in frustration. “God damn it,” he mutters. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a few seconds to rub them. When he opens them again, he sees a blonde woman crossing the street, but he doesn’t hit the brakes fast enough. ---- Daniel looks down at Karen’s body, shaking his head. His police badge hangs around his neck, and his partner--a man by the name of Carter--stands behind him. “Looks like she was pregnant,” Daniel mutters. Living here, he’s seen terrible stuff all the time, but this hits him harder than most. Blood covers most of her face, but Daniel guesses she was probably in her thirties, maybe late twenties. Her body is twisted at an odd angle and her eyes are open, wide and lifeless. He beckons someone over and orders them to cover her up. They comply, and after about an hour, her body put in a body bag and hauled away. All they have is her jacket, and inside, a picture of her and a man with tattoos running down his arms. Carter offers to go house to house, showing residents the picture and hoping they can identify her soon. “Karen Levitt,” Carter says from behind Daniel. Daniel turns and looks at him inquisitively. “Nicole MacDonald identified her. Best friend.” “Oh,” Daniel says solemnly. “Who’s the guy?” “Boyfriend. Hunter Daft. He lives a few blocks away, on Fisher and Price.” "I'll notify," Daniel says, solemn and reluctant. He heads back to his car and makes the short drive to the corner of Fisher and Price. It's one of the Zone's worst neighborhoods, and the condition of Hunter and Karen's apartment supports that claim clearly. He stands on the porch and presses a button labeled 3D. near the mailbox. Next to the button, the names Daft and Levitt are written in black marker. A few seconds later, he's buzzed in and he opens the door. He climbs a few flights of stairs and knocks on Hunter's door. "Officer Everett," Hunter says when he opens the door. Daniel scrutinizes the bruising on Hunter's face, but then puts it in the back of his mind. Hunter notices the suspicious look and hopes word didn't spread of last night's deal. "Mr. Daft. Hi," Daniel says, and he clears his throat. "Can I come in?" "What is it?" "I...I'd rather come in." Hunter hesitates. "Out here's fine." Daniel sighs, grateful no one else is in the hall. "Do you know Karen Levitt?" "Yes," Hunter answers, and his hand involuntarily clenches around the doorknob. "Why?" "Unfortunately, we found her body this morning." "Is she okay?" "Uh..." Daniel thought he made her fate clear, but he's seen this type of reaction before. Pure shock. "N-no. She's dead, Mr. Daft." Category:Dead Frontier Category:Dead Frontier Issues Category:Issues Category:Walkerbait22's Stories